That was the strategy advice from a fellow runner as we stood in the rain at the starting line of the Red Rock Canyon Marathon on Feb. 18. With the inclement weather and the difficulty of the course (not to mention my recent gluteal injury), it seemed pretty sound.
The start line. It was this gloomy the entire time.
At the "go" command, right on the nose at 6:15 a.m. PST, before what would have been sunrise if the sun actually did come out that day, we began trotting along the Scenic Drive of Red Rock Canyon. Because of the rain, a river of runoff was spilling onto the road at a spot in the first mile. We were warned that it would be a few inches deep and several feet wide. It was well above our ankles and took about five or six steps to get through.
We had 25 miles to go, it was chilly (upper 40s) and raining the kind of cold rain that gets you right down to the bone, and our shoes and socks were already saturated. I remarked to a fellow runner that I had run 15 marathons, and never had a rainy one; I come to the desert, and it rains.
No matter. With my newfound outlook of low expectations, I took the first mile nice and easy at a nine-minute pace.
OK, that was too slow. I mean, I wanted to keep things light, but I also wanted to come in under four hours, so I picked it up a bit. Besides, dressed only in a t-shirt and shorts (and cotton gloves) while everyone else was bundled up and wearing ponchos, I needed to move a little faster to warm up. I hate wearing excess clothes in the rain. It is just more material to be uncomfortably wet on my body.
And so, for the next eight miles, with only a few welcome respites of level ground or short downhills, it was a long steady climb uphill. I maintained an average pace in the low eights, passing folks (from all over the country) and wishing them well and offering good cheer despite the miserable weather. All the while, I listened to Phish's excellent 2/18/97 show (exactly 20 years ago!)
Finally reaching the top - a full thousand feet above the starting point), I took a good look around at the view (or what I could see of it in the dreary weather) and began my descent - a five mile stretch back down that 1,000 feet. Gravity pulled my legs and I was not about to try to to stop it, averaging a pace in the low 7s and greeting all the half-marathoners coming toward me for the beginning of their race (they started at the marathon turnaround point), one of whom informed me that I was in ninth place.
I hit the halfway mark at around 1:44, which put me at an average pace in the high 7s. And unlike other races, when I would try to maintain my pace for the second half, I did not have any illusion that an even split was plausible. For this race, rather than gun for a 3:28, I looked at it as having a 32-minute cushion to finish in less than four hours. After all, for the next five miles, my focus was to climb that 1,000 feet steadily and carefully, ensuring that I would still have enough gas in the tank for the last eight miles.
I peeled the heavy cotton gloves off my freezing wet hands and got down to the hard work, passing the eight place guy somewhere in the 16th or 17th mile. He was having some major difficulty and I could tell he was probably going to hit the wall. I chatted with him a bit, then soldiered on. My pace was into the 9s again, but - and I can not keep stressing this enough - I never felt like I needed to beat the clock. I only needed to beat the course.
When I finally did hit the peak in mile 18, the work was definitely not finished. The downhill was much more gradual and those brief respites I mentioned in the first half now seemed like enormous hills to climb. But I did so, the only way I know how - one step at a time, making sure to take in the beautiful scenery (despite the fact that it was still raining).
The rolling nature of the next few miles made the final few miles of steady decline more difficult than they should have been. My legs were fatigued in a big way, but I never felt like I would hit the wall. I was barely squeaking out 8-minute miles, but I never felt like I had betrayed my body or my training. I was running the right pace for this particular course on this particular day.
After sloshing through the giant puddle/river again in the final mile, I saw Gloria, who ran with me for the last tenth of a mile or so. My body and brain were taxed, no question, but seeing my girlfriend there gave me the last bit of strength to finish strong and with a smile at 3:36:30.
It was my fourth slowest marathon, yet one of my proudest. I thought a lot about Park City during the race, and as I conquered this mountain I felt like I was getting my revenge on the mountain that crushed me in Utah. I win this time, mountain. I got the last laugh.
Astonishingly, because the winner of the race was in my age group and runners were not allowed to receive duplicate awards, I received the first place medal for my age group (men 40 to 49). I was stiff, sore, aching, freezing, soaked, and could barely walk. But I was thrilled. And hungry. After grabbing a couple of pancakes and some granola from the nice volunteers in the big box truck, Gloria and I made our way to the car, which she had so nicely brought right to the finish area.
We got back to our hotel on the Vegas strip, took nice hot showers, and headed out to the brunch buffet, where I proceed to eat for three straight hours, rolling right into dinner.
Hey, I earned it.
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